one more miracle
by i m a g i n e dream b e
Summary: Sherlock is dead. Or is he? Post-Reichenbach, T for language. Slash fic. R/R


A/N: Please, please, please review this if it caused you to feel any emotions whatsoever. :3

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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The crinkling of his suit is a ridiculously familiar form of hateful to him. The stiffness in his legs as he walks, the hems of his slacks brushing the tops of his shoes _just so_, his arms pulling insistently at his sleeves with even the slightest movement. The jacket clinging to his shirt, which, in turn, clings to his body with the air of some distinctly maddened desperation.

Yes, it's just as bad as he remembers.

He has never particularly enjoyed black tie events. That has always been Sherlock's department. For one who sets so little to store by the approval of others, he dresses with remarkable care.

_Had_ set. _Had_ dressed.

_Had._

A hateful word. And "hateful" itself seems far worse, because it is one of _his_ words, one of those perfectly timed strings of letters to convey Sherlock's graceful eloquence, even at his worst.

_Had been_ one of his words.

It's all so confusing.

Standing up at the podium is easily one of the most difficult experiences of his life, even counting the war and military training. Adjusting the collar of his shirt, he glances out at the sniffling crowd, clearing his throat hurriedly and thrusting his gaze about, inspecting the trees, the sunlight streaming through the clouds, creating the brilliant gray color of the sky. His eyes are becoming alarmingly wet alarmingly fast, and as he hunches over the wooden stand, drumming his fingers rapidly as he considers different introductory phrases, he considers just how horrifically funny this could all be. An over-emotional group of people at the funeral for the most robotic man he has ever met. The one man who fought to keep emotions out of his life.

"So, um," he begins hesitantly, unsure as to whether he should include some kind of explanation, or introduction, or something. He has never had to do this before. "Sherlock was my flat mate. My really, truly maddening flat mate. Well, honestly speaking, he was the worst you could ask for."

The crowd joins him in a watery chuckle and he fleetingly wonders if Sherlock would smile at that, if his lips would turn up that bare millimeter, if his smile lines would show through his carefully stoic expression. He continues on.

"There were… disembodied heads in the fridge, severed fingers in the freezer, and manikins hanging from the ceiling. He spied on all the passers-by and refused cases when we were due to pay rent. He shot at the wall when he was bored— which was most of the time, understand— and played his god-awful violin at three in the morning, and joined me uninvited on my dates, and stole and hacked into my laptop constantly." Here John pauses, glancing up briefly before dropping his gaze again to stare at the pattern of the wood under his fingers. Sherlock would be able to identify the kind of wood this was easily, continuing on to describe the life story of the man who made it. Would have been. His voice wavers; he pushes it away. "Honestly, I think there were quite a few days I seriously considered killing him myself—"

He breaks off suddenly.

…_please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this._

He scans the crowd subconsciously, searching for the curly hair, the long coat, the slim suit, the blue eyes, the awful half-smirk.

_Please_.

"So, yeah, Sherlock was a bloody awful flat mate. But he was… the best friend I could ever ask for. He was a great man, and Greg?" Lestrade looks up at him, his face blotchy, his eyes red. "I think he proved himself to be a very good one, too."

Lestrade nods slowly, a half smile lighting his face before he looks down at his lap, and next to him, Mycroft Holmes pats his shoulder uncomfortably. His eyes are red, too, and despite his best concentrated efforts, it is clear that he has been crying quite a bit in his spare time.

_Please… just stop it. Stop this._

"Sherlock?" And of course he is not there, cannot be there, will never be there. And of course he cannot hear him, but it needs saying at least one more time, and John is determined to tell everybody at once, so he continues stubbornly as his voice quiver. "Sherlock? I said it once, and I'll say it again, because I want everybody to hear it. You once told me heroes didn't exist, and that if they did, you wouldn't be one of them."

He sucks in a breath. His tears are streaming down his face now, breath catching in his throat as his lungs burn for air, but he will not give in or back down. He won't.

He's following a slightly different train of thought now. It's okay. The former one, alone at his best friend's grave, was more personal than this. More private.

"I think you were. I still think you are. And if, by some miracle, you can hear this… just… I— I—"

And he finally breaks down, because unlike Sherlock, he is not able to disregard his body's efforts, and soon he is leaning on his arms, shaking uncontrollably as he lets out one, two, three sobs, unable to stop himself. And Lestrade is pulling him away, patting his back and shushing him, and Mycroft is gripping his shoulder, and he is escorted down the stairs and away. Which is really for the best, because he is almost overcome with the urge to stride over to Sherlock's grave and beat the stone with his fists, to knock it over and dig until his hands are battered bloody, to find his peaceful corpse and crawl in with it and die, too, because Sherlock was his best friend and _so much more_ than that.

"Please come back to me," he whispers desperately as he is ushered into a car and driven away. He loses the ability to support himself, slumping against the window and closed door to his right, and he continues whispering this.

_Please come back to me. Please come back to me._

_Please._

_._

It's a while until he can set foot in their flat again, and it's even longer before it finally strikes him that the only reason he can is his unwavering inability to accept that Sherlock is gone. It doesn't bother him in the slightest. Sherlock is mad and impossible and unpredictable. If anyone could pull it off, it would be him.

So he tells himself that Sherlock's away, working on a case in Cardiff. He creates enough details to perpetuate the belief, and refrains enough so as not to negate it with truth. He smiles and laughs, and takes trips down to the bar with his mates and sometimes even Lestrade.

He resolutely ignores Lestrade's pitying glances. He gets enough of them when Mrs. Hudson is done playing along for the day, when she turns back to wish him a good night and stares for a second more than necessary before turning away and wandering down the stairs, all hunched over. Instead, he fixates on the meaningful looks that Mycroft bestows upon him and refuses to explain. The looks he gets when he is presumably staring in the other direction. The looks he gets when Mycroft sees that John still leaves out one last cup of coffee (black, two sugars), no matter the number dining with him.

It's quite possible that he's delusional. He is certainly acting insane.

Because he does always leave out a cup of coffee— even if he makes a morning batch before rushing down to work, he takes the time to make it just as Sherlock likes it. He also makes an extra serving for each meal, leaves notes on the fridge when he runs errands; he keeps the violin tuned and polished and the skull regularly cleaned.

He even keeps a fresh supply of nicotine patches and cigarettes. And then he hides the latter.

And every time he comes through the door to 221B, he inspects the lock for signs of use, holds his breath as he ascends the staircase and opens the door to the flat.

And every time nobody is there, he sucks in a deep breath, counts to twenty, blinking rapidly, and heads down to Mrs. Hudson, casually inquiring as to whether she'd like a cup of tea or coffee.

His deliberated nonchalance makes no difference. She always knows.

.

Shortly after Sherlock's disappearance, as John continues to call it, he and Sarah have a rather magnificent fall out. There is name calling, and shouting, and crying. In the end, they cannot part on a bad note because they're doctors. They understand each other at a medical as well as a professional level, and Sarah, who has admitted to dabbling in psychology quite frequently, can only whisper that she saw this coming.

He holds his hand out so that she can join him on her couch and they sit, staring blankly at the TV across the room.

"He's not coming back," she tries. It is no longer an attempt to save their relationship; she's aware that nothing can do that. Sherlock has always come first for him.

He disregards her anyways, and she gives up. She will not take his only hope away from him. She will not break the man who is cracking open at the seams. She is not that cruel.

Part of her hopes that he is right. Because if John can no longer remain stoic and sturdy… stability must be a myth.

And she's kind of relying on stability to get her through this breakup.

.

He begins to talk to himself, pretending Sherlock is casting him expressions brimming with exasperation and amusement in response.

It makes the day a lot less lonely.

And as he sets the table for two, he wonders if maybe Sarah was right.

.

He can barely see through the rain pouring inches away from his face. Thank god for his hat, or John would be absolutely blind, stuck in the middle of the road with a jug of milk. He pays the cabbie quickly, raising his hand in thanks as he hastens across the street and strains to pull his keys from his inside pocket.

His hands numbly scrabble within the fabric, jostling items that he wonders about for the millionth time. _Unused napkin, I should really throw that out. Later. I'll do it later._ Finally his fingernail scrapes metal, and he awkwardly tugs them out, swearing as they catch on the zipper, pulling it down and exposing his torso to this god-awful rain.

At last he is able to turn the key, and _of course_ the door is stuck, so he slams his weight into it, practically falling into the staircase as it gives way. Sighing in mild frustration, he turns back to it, slams it shut with a little more force than necessary, and makes his way up the stairs, careful to keep one hand on the banister as his shoes squeak and slide out from under him.

Mrs. Hudson is going to kill him for the mess.

He can't be bothered.

Which is really quite terrible, he tells himself as he trudges up to meet carpeted floors. He's done nothing but inconvenience her, and he doesn't even feel the slightest bit of remorse for it.

He reaches for his keys again as he finally comes upon his flat door. Why he put it away (or when he did so) is really beyond him, but time has been passing by him in this disjointed fashion for a while now, so it isn't as alarming as it might usually be. Scrunching his face, he turns the key and pushes the door, silently praying for easy passage.

Of course, there is no kind god today. So he sighs, steps back, and thrusts his whole body against it.

Still no kind god, it seems, because he crashes through the doorway, door flying to the side after being viciously ripped from its hinges, and lands in a heap on the floor. He turns to survey the damage, grumbling all the while.

Mrs. Hudson is going to _kill_ him, and this time he is definitely bothered.

He sits there, staring at it for a second. Going over it in his mind, imagining what that might have looked like, and he is startled to hear himself let out a small chuckle.

This is the first time he has laughed in any way whilst alone for three years.

Apparently this is affecting him, though, because he allows himself to lean back on his arms and laugh wholeheartedly at the ridiculousness of the whole situation, milk forgotten on the floor next to him.

"Goodness."

The laughter stops, his heart stops, his head turns so fast he cracks his neck and gasps in pain and astonishment as his eyes and mouth widen in shock.

Sherlock fucking Holmes is sitting on his fucking couch, drinking the coffee John left on the table before leaving.

John blinks.

Sherlock inclines his head and places the cup delicately on the table next to his chair.

John blinks again.

Sherlock smiles, and John is not laughing anymore, or depressed anymore.

He is angry. Really, truly angry, because _what the fucking hell_. He opens his mouth, but nothing coherent escapes.

"I… you…" He stands, as if hoping a change in perspective will show him that he is hallucinating, that Sherlock isn't right there in front of him. Sherlock stands, too, buttoning his suit jacket and fixing his tie. His hair is still floppy, his eyes are still blue. But for the few extra lines on his face, John may have made up the entire death in his head.

"Me," Sherlock replies calmly in that deep voice of his, and it is almost patronizing, and John just _snaps_.

"You were fucking _dead_, you _bastard!_" he shouts, and Sherlock's impassive face twitches mildly in discomfort. _Good_, John thinks savagely, because he deserves it for what he's put John through. "You made me _watch_," he takes a step towards the taller man at this, and takes one more for each phrase he utters, "and you_ jumped_, and you were _crying_, and I saw you _fall_, and I saw your _body_, and what the _hell_ are you doing here, and why the _fuck_ did it take you so long?" And his eyes are wet now, because he doesn't know what to think, and here is Sherlock, in the fucking flesh, and no matter how much he hates him for putting him through this, he will never stop loving him. Can never stop.

It's positively maddening. And this increases tenfold when Sherlock rolls his eyes and begins to speak.

"As usual, John, you chose to _see_ rather than _observe_. I suppose, yes, to the untrained and mundane eye—"

Before he knows it, his left hand is grabbing Sherlock's tie and pulling sharply, his right hand curled up into a fist and sailing to the left of his face. The satisfaction of the punch is delicious, as is the stunned expression that results. Sherlock's mouth drops open, his hand reaching to cradle his jaw, but John allows none of it, growling in frustration before tugging on the tie yet again and smashing their lips together.

Sherlock's stiff posture relaxes in about two seconds, the curve of his back reversing direction as he leans in, taking John's face in hand and shaping his lips in response. John's hand finds its way into Sherlock's hair, tugging slightly, and Sherlock quivers slightly, pressing himself closer and deepening the kiss until finally neither of them can breathe. They pull away simultaneously, and John realizes what he's just done.

Blushing at Sherlock's still shell-shocked expression, he reaches out a trembling hand, shakily pressing it to Sherlock's jaw and then his chest— taking his pulse, feeling his heart.

Sherlock trembles, too, and all at once John realizes that this has been an ordeal for _both_ of them. So he pulls him in, wrapping his arms around the taller man's waist and burying his head in his chest and just _being_ there.

They'll have to deal with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and the rest of the world. They'd have to compare notes on how they've been doing, habits that have changed, and at least how Sherlock managed to convince the world he was dead, if not how he managed to survive that fall. They'll have to talk about the kiss that just happened, and what it means for their relationship.

But for now, John is content leaning into Sherlock and breathing in his familiar scent, and it seems a lot like Sherlock may feel the same.

And when Sherlock reciprocates, wrapping his arms around John in turn with a content sigh, and then leaning his head on John's and just _breathing_, John decides that he is never letting Sherlock go again.

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A/N: If this gave you any feelings of any kind, I would be very thankful for a review.

:)

Thanks for reading!


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